I opened my eyes, but it wasn’t the ceiling I saw. Before me were giant trees and the starry sky.
My mind gradually became clear, but the cold made it impossible for me to leave my sleeping bag.
It was 4 a.m., the earliest I had woken up in my 139-day journey—and definitely the last time.
Because this was my final day, the last day on the PCT. (Editor’s note: The Pacific Crest Trail, abbreviated as PCT)
Though I didn’t want to get up, faint sounds came from not far away—my teammates were waking up. The blinding beams from their headlamps seemed to be calling me. On the previous 138 days, I definitely wouldn’t have been able to, but on this final day, like a kid who’d been looking forward to sports day, I quickly snapped into alertness. I easily sat up, yet still didn’t want to leave my sleeping bag.
One of the teammates walked off slowly. I thought he was just going to relieve himself, but he came back with an armful of branches.
“I want to build the campfire again,” he said.
“Didn’t you say we had to leave by five? Why are you building a campfire now?” I thought, but didn’t stop him.
Soon, the firelight lit up my face.
I quickly left my sleeping bag and pad, didn’t even have time to put on slippers, and hurried barefoot to the fire, staring blankly, letting my mind go empty.
Before long, four more people joined me—my teammates gathered around.
Silence. No one spoke.
Too early to be fully awake? Maybe. But I’d rather believe we were all just silent because none of us could accept a certain truth.
The truth was, we had hiked over 4,000 kilometers of mountain trails, starting in Mexico and crossing the entire western United States.
The truth was, today we would reach the Canadian border—the end of our journey. And we couldn’t accept that this journey actually had a final day.
It was today.
The branches burned out, our bodies warmed up, our gear packed, and it was time to start hiking again. The time was 5:30 a.m.
We walked one after another, not far apart from each other. Partly because “night hiking” carried certain dangers, and partly because, on this final day, we all seemed to cherish these last moments of hiking together.
Looking up, I saw the Milky Way. Not far away, I spotted the reflection of our headlamp light in the eyes of wild deer. Gazing further toward the mountains in the distance, they gradually brightened, then turned red—the sun was rising.
I never expected that on the very last day, we could experience such a complete day, like a perfect summary of our journey. As the sun, hiding behind the mountains, was about to appear, we found a random spot to sit. The five of us took turns smoking the last joint on the PCT—also the last joint of my life—and waited.
Deserts, snow-capped mountains, forests, deep streams—the past 138 days were perfectly summed up.
There were only about 20 kilometers left to the Canadian border. For us who had already walked over 4,000 kilometers and could cover 40+ kilometers a day, it felt too short—way too short.
Our group had only five people, but we knew “We are not alone.” Everywhere, we could hear people shouting into the depth of the valleys, as if hoping the echo that returned a second later could linger in their minds forever. Or hiking while yelling “Canada!” singing the U.S. and Canadian national anthems. Yes, we were as excited as if we were high on marijuana. This trail called the PCT had gotten us all hooked.
This wasn’t my first time smoking marijuana, but honestly, the previous times had no effect whatsoever. This time, though, my teammates warned me the stash was “strong stuff,” and indeed, it made me cough non-stop. Gradually, I started staggering a bit like I was drunk, my reactions slowed down, thoughts became sluggish—but unlike others who got wild and crazy, I grew quieter instead. I liked that feeling, as if the world had stopped moving, making today last forever.
But my legs didn’t stop.
The PCT was like a strict teacher. Over these hundred-plus days, it kept testing us with varied landscapes—the 30+ kilometer waterless zones in Southern California’s desert with temperatures above 40°C, the Sierra snowfields at 4,000 meters elevation with waist-deep streams, the relentless rain, hail, and snowstorms in Washington’s Paradise. Obstacle after obstacle, we conquered them all. Then, as we neared the end, the strict teacher softened. The final 10 kilometers were gentle downhill slopes—easy walking that gave me time to reflect on the hardships we’d endured.
In the distance, I saw familiar faces approaching. I widened my eyes and couldn’t help shouting, “C-Store!” He froze for a second before recognizing me—my hair had grown much longer. “Shifu, is that you?”
Yes, my trail nickname was Shifu (Master), and his was C-Store. We had started on the same day, leaving the Mexican border. We crossed paths many times along the way, but hadn’t seen each other—or even heard from each other—for about a month.
“Congratulations on making it here. I’m glad you didn’t give up,” he said, “and I didn’t expect to run into you on the last day of your journey!”
“Me too. I hadn’t heard anything about you in the middle section. Where did you go? Why are you walking back now?” If it had been someone else, I wouldn’t have been surprised if they quit, but C-Store isn’t someone who lacks perseverance. Why haven’t I seen him at all?
“I went to Canada in the middle to attend a friend’s wedding, so I had to drop out. Now that I have time, I’m walking back from Canada to see how far I can get.”
Looking at him, I remembered the day we first met—how he laid out all his gear on the grass and had experienced hikers help him “cut the fat” by removing unnecessary items. Now, he’s grown to look like a seasoned trekker. Looking at myself, haven’t both of us grown just the same?
Enough talk—we still had to say goodbye. We bumped fists, said “Take care,” and continued on our way.
There it was—the border line I’d seen online. The forest was split in two, with the left side being the U.S. and the right side Canada. I never imagined I’d one day see an international border with my own eyes, and not by car, but by walking here step by step with my own feet.
I heard it—the cheers of other hikers in the distance. I stopped and signaled to my teammates to go ahead. At the very last moment, I chose to walk to the finish line alone instead of sharing that moment with them. Maybe, I was just being stubborn—I wanted to keep this time for myself.
Surrounded by the cheers, I reached the northern terminus monument of the PCT. Just like every other hiker who arrived there, I reached out and gently touched the symbol of the journey’s end. In my heart, I mouthed the words “We did it.” It was really over. Standing on this border line that I couldn’t even tell belonged to the U.S. or Canada, I thought back to 139 days ago at the Mexican border, where I started by touching the southern terminus monument. That day felt like yesterday. How could time have passed so quickly? For many, a 4,000-kilometer trail seems like an impossible mission, something they could never complete—but I managed to finish it in those fleeting 139 days. Don’t we all live on the same timeline?
If the PCT is a machine that alters the speed of time, then the northern border line is the watershed that pulled me back to the real timeline. A national boundary marks the end of the PCT and the beginning of the next chapter of my life. This different timeline will be stored deep in my heart, tucked away yet always ready to be revisited. Thank you, PCT—you took me on a journey through time and let me experience a different world.
Former journalist / hitchhiker / long-distance hiker / writer / freelance photographer.
Hitchhiked over 10,000 km, hiked over 5,000 km, experiencing the world at the slowest pace.
Co-author of *The Alchemist: Looking Back at My City from Afar*
FB: 重行人生 (Re-starting Life)
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